


when i'm down on my knees you're how i pray

by chinablue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Episode: s03e04 Sin City, Established Relationship, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mirror Sex, Praise Kink, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Worried Dean Winchester, due to lack of negotiation, possessive!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:20:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28901025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chinablue/pseuds/chinablue
Summary: "It’s not as if Sam doesn’t know what makes Dean tick, after all. He can’t have forgotten all the fantasies Dean has shared with him over the years, even the really nasty, violent ones that flushed Sam's cheeks a glaring scarlet, evoked awed responses like "Jesus, Dean, you’re really into stuff like that?" Dean didn't mind - quite liked watching Sam squirm, actually - and he'd long since accepted that he’d likely never get Sam on board with acting out the more grisly tales buried deep in his spank bank. But then again, Sam is different since he...Dean still can’t use the words “Sam” and “died” together in the same sentence."Or, Dean starts to wonder if the Sam he brought back is "100% pure" after all.Set directly after Sin City. 18+ for explicit slash
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 86





	when i'm down on my knees you're how i pray

Dean can’t wait to get out of this town. He and Sam have stayed in some seedy places over the years, but Elizabethville has to be the height of scumbaggery. That’s to say nothing of the hotel they landed in, with its hallways crawling with hookers and drug pushers. The musky rooms seem to have been designed to resemble a cross between a reject porno set and just about the worst funhouse Dean can imagine. It's the mirrors that really freak him the fuck out, floor to ceiling on every wall and, as a special treat, even on the _actual_ _ceiling._ He's hated catching an eyeful of himself first thing in the morning throughout their stay, sticky-eyed, face crusty with his own saliva. The only thing that made it any better was seeing Sam in the glass too, curled up warm and tight in bed next to him, legs tangled in Dean's beneath the sheets. That wasn’t so bad at all.

When Dean drives into the parking lot, he expects Sam to be waiting for him outside the hotel, bags packed, itching to get the hell out as much as Dean is. He’s not there. Dean frowns; scans the area, seeing nothing but cars with busted tail lights and some dude sitting on the curb smoking a blunt.

He takes his frustration out on the steering wheel, digging his fingernails in tight, before resigning himself to Sam’s absence and seeking out a parking space. Sam knows better than to delay them like this. He better not be glued to the bathroom mirror, fucking around with his hair.

Dean tailgates his way back into the hotel, one eye over his shoulder out of habit as he makes his way up to their room.

The knot in his gut has been there for weeks. It let up slightly after his conversation with Bobby, but not much, really; only so far as Dean could see the traces of fear in Bobby’s eyes, the way the grooves in his leathery face deepened as he reassured Dean that Sam was probably fine, that demons lie. He’s right, of course. Besides, it’s not like he’s ever sugarcoated shit for Dean, not once, not even in the moments when Dean has really wished that he would. Bobby wouldn’t say Sam was okay unless he was totally sure of it. Besides, Bobby’s old. Old people are full of wisdom, right?

Still, Dean can’t shake it; those yellow irises frozen into his mind’s eye, waking him up in the middle of the night, moist with cool sweat, mouth like sand. The things the bastard said to him, about him, about _Sam_. Sure, demons lie - but when the truth can hurt, in that bitter, sobering way that only the hard truth can, it’s pretty much their favourite weapon.

It makes Dean wonder. 

Dean hates to wonder. But as he paces the corridor and tries to remember what the fuck the number of their room was, he really _wonders_ , even if just for a second, if he’ll find Sam there at all. What if he’s disappeared on Dean again, not for some misguidedly good reason this time, but to go do… well, what? 

_What_? Dean asks himself again, not without anger. 

He can’t, he reasons with himself, truly believe that the Sam he brought back isn’t whole; or, worse still, has some kind of B-movie split personality. There’s got to be a better explanation for why Sam has put the moral crises he has such a penchant for on the backburner lately. Why so suddenly he’ll shoot like it’s nothing, cold and careless; how he’ll casually stroll for the shower after a hunt while Dean grips the edges of a sticky, unfamiliar bed, pulse roaring in his temples, trying to shove the worst memories into the shadowy, untouchable corners of his mind where they belong. The way… 

Oh, fuck it. None of it’s _that_ bad, not really.

“Sammy?” Dean pounds his flattened hand against the door of their hotel room. He ignores the dread prickling in his chest. “I’m ready to go. The hell you doing in there?”

When there’s no immediate response, Dean paces on the spot, tight with agitation. He’s about ready to knock again - and give Sam a goddamn piece of his mind this time, too - when the door opens.

Dean catches the slimmest glimpse of Sam’s face, enough to note the way his lips are taut with determination. There's something else too, something Dean can’t quite place; something he loses sight of altogether when Sam hauls him up against the wall, face first, grunting with exertion. As Dean’s ribs collide with cold plaster, peeling wallpaper, the shock of it jerks the air clean out of his lungs.

Dean watches Sam kick the door closed out of the corner of his eye. Before he can think about turning round, Sam is behind him, grabbing Dean’s wrists and pinning them to the wall either side of his head. His grip is vicious, but Dean struggles anyway, instinctively, too stunned to throw much strength behind it. Sam makes a low rumbling noise that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle before pressing his chest against Dean’s shoulder blades, inhibiting his movements almost completely.

 _Alright_ , something rational murmurs from the shadows of Dean’s mind. _Just stay calm. Whatever’s gotten into him, you can get it out._

“Sam, what-” Dean tries for steady, authoritative, but he’s winded and it emerges as barely a gasp. “What the hell?”

He can feel the tails of Sam’s breaths lapping at the crown of his head. He suppresses a shudder. Then, as Sam presses his hips into the small of Dean’s back, he takes note of something more telling, unmistakable: Sam’s hard. 

Dean swallows, startled into rigid stillness. Sam’s lips graze the nape of his neck, and Dean shudders, mildly horrified when his own groin stirs in response.

 _“How certain are you that what you brought back is 100%, pure Sam?”_

“Sam?” he tries again, with a pang of desperation.

“Ssh.” Sam gives his wrists a gentle squeeze. “Relax. It’s okay.” 

There’s a husky edge to his voice that Dean recognizes well. It evokes memories of summer afternoons in the back of the Impala, parked up on the sides of dusty roads that roll out so far in each direction you’d think you could walk right off the edges of the earth, Sam inside him, over him, tangled up in his limbs, his mouth marking every crevice of skin he could reach. Always, he’d respond to Dean’s broken pleas for more, harder, _meaner_ , but just never, never quite _enough…_

As Sam rolls his hips, one jerky rut, Dean can’t keep his longing sigh trapped in his throat.

“Not gonna hurt you, Dean,” he breathes into Dean’s scalp. “I just wanna play. That’s all.”

His grip slackens on Dean’s wrists, just slightly, as if to prove his point. Dean makes no attempt to wriggle away from him.

Instead, he bristles with relief. Of course Sam would never hurt him. Of course this was...

“Really?” Dean’s chest throbs. “Now?”

“Yeah. Right _now_.”

Sam gives another sharp thrust against Dean’s ass, and despite his confusion, shameless need rises in Dean like heat. His brain fights to make a shred of sense of this, to string the million questions he wants to ask into something coherent. 

The tip of Sam’s tongue makes a languid, wet stroke up the back of Dean’s neck, and he shudders, a broken moan echoing into the wall. “Don’t we need to check out?” is all he manages.

“Chill.” Sam rolls his hips again, something urgent behind it this time. “I’ve taken care of it.” 

Dean can feel his cock, and, despite everything, despite how fucking weird this all is, his fingers curl with longing. Sam’s teeth latch onto a spot at the base of Dean’s neck; not hard, but he closes his lips around the sensitive flesh and suckles until Dean pants, squirms. 

“Sammy…”

“Come on, Dean.” Sam sighs into his neck. “I _need_ you.”

His voice is raw with want, and there’s something so pleading about it that Dean closes his eyes, the last of his resistance crumbling. Desire flows through him like poison, along with something else it takes him a moment to recognize: guilt. 

Sam _needs_ him. After everything Dean has put him through lately, how can he dare to deny him? Even if Sam is different, even if it involves ignoring the vague niggles in his brain, stern little doubts that whisper things like _he didn’t listen to you_ and _different_ and _cold eyes._..

If Dean’s hands were free, he might just punch himself. Sam is _fine._

It’s hard to think when Sam moans softly into his neck like that anyway, when he places Dean’s arms firmly at his sides and eases him away from the wall, just a little, by his hips; hard to focus when Sam holds Dean’s head in one hand and roams the other over his chest, grazing his belly, his nipples; but even as Dean’s knees slacken, as he surrenders to Sam’s touch, he forces himself to concentrate. 

How many times, he reminds himself, has he snapped at Sam to stop treating him like a sissy fucking girl? How many times has he clawed at Sam’s back, insisting he could take his cock harder, deeper, only for Sam’s mouth to tighten with uncertainty as he thrusted with a little more zeal, but nowhere near as hard as Dean needed? He knows Sam could fuck like an absolute beast if he just let himself go a little. Dean’s seen him, high on adrenaline, slick with sweat and blood after a hunt, snarling and primal and clawing at Dean’s clothes like he wants to fucking destroy him - but then he... doesn’t. He just stares through wild eyes as his breaths come rough and stuttered, clinging to Dean like he’s afraid, scared of what he could do.

Maybe now, just maybe - for whatever reason - he’s not. Dean helps Sam shrug his jacket off his shoulders; feels a strange spark of delight as it hits the floor.

Sam’s hands slam against Dean’s waist, fierce, possessive.

“You sure about this, Sammy?” Dean whispers.

“Oh, yeah.” A graze of teeth against his earlobe; then Sam bites, one fierce nip, and Dean almost yelps. “Very sure.”

Dean bites his lip as Sam yanks him back from the wall to slide his hands beneath his t-shirt. His skin tingles electric at the contact. The thought of how _good_ this could be, if he just gives in, makes him feel slightly faint.

Dean’s breaths accelerate as Sam punctuates a thrust against his ass with a growl this time, and there’s something so unrestrained and aggressive about it that Dean’s head starts to spin. He grabs onto Sam’s arm to steady himself. He lets himself lean against Sam’s chest, lowering his head to watch as Sam’s rough hands caress his chest, his touch leaving tingling, searing heat in its wake. Dean tilts his head back against Sam’s shoulder. He trails his lips lazily over his cheek; they suck inwards against Sam’s skin, catching a little hiss of pleasure as Sam rolls each of his nipples between his fingers.

“Feels nice,” Dean murmurs.

“Yeah? You like that?”

Dean releases a moan that ends in a pitchy cry as Sam’s grip tightens, until he’s pinching, _twisting,_ Dean's nipples. The pain is sharp, barely tolerable; his breath comes in a series of punctured grunts, his cock stirring at the sensation in a way that startles him. He chokes out a whimper, spine curving into Sam's chest.

Sam purrs, low and dizzying. It's a sound of pure delight. _Fuck._ Sam is getting off on this.

Dean thinks he might be quivering a little as Sam finally lets him go. He closes his eyes, breathing hard. His mind is in pieces. Lots of people get a kick out of hurting their lovers, right? Just because Sam might be one of them doesn’t mean…

His cock is straining, whining in his jeans.

“God,” Dean breathes. “You little _bitch_.”

He winces as Sam’s hand comes down on the back of his head, fingers carding through his hair in a mocking caress. “Too much for you, Dean?” he whispers. “You’re not a pussy, are you?”

Despite himself, Dean’s lip irks up in amusement. “Uh, excuse me?”

He can feel Sam grinning against his ear. “You heard me.”

Sam grabs his shoulders, roughly spinning him around. Dean winces as his ass collides with the plaster; it already feels raw from the grind of denim against bare skin. He barely has half a second to acknowledge it, as he locks eyes with Sam for the first time. 

He finds himself pressing his shoulders back, as if he could sink into the wall behind him. Dean has never seen this look on his little brother’s face before. Sam’s irises are five shades darker around his blown pupils, electrified with violent lust. His lips, wearing something between a grin and a snarl, don’t quite touch. 

Dean’s blood hums with arousal, curiosity, and he _needs_ , craves, almost sick with it. Almost enough to drown out that cruel, lying voice, that _stupid_..

_“100% pure Sam…”_

Dean flinches as Sam leers at him. Something he’s barely aware of compels him to lift his arms obediently, allowing Sam to tug off his shirt with a haste that startles him. Bare chested, he smarts with vulnerability. Watches his shirt hit the carpet too, joining his jacket.

Then, Sam’s face softens. He cups Dean’s face in one hand, placing the other on his hip. Confused, Dean’s stares at him; watches Sam’s teeth gently graze his lower lip, his eyes brimming with something softer, something more like affection. 

Dean reaches for Sam’s wrist, closing his fingers around it in a light, hesitant grip. Sam doesn’t stop him. Just sighs, soft and longing. He lets his eyes close in time with the soft kiss Sam presses to his forehead. 

“God, Dean,” he whispers. “I love getting you all riled up. So gorgeous when you’re all turned on like this.”

He smiles, thumb brushing Dean’s cheekbone where his hand rests. 

“Right,” Dean says slowly. “Is this the part where you drop the Ted Bundy act and start comparing me to a fucking summer’s day? I gotta be honest, Sammy, I ain’t really sure where you’re going with this…”

Sam’s mouth twitches, and something about that makes Dean shut up immediately. His grip on Dean’s jaw tightens until he winces. 

“I don’t wanna hear your smartassed remarks right now,” he says quietly. “Alright?”

Dean barely has a chance to nod - or question his own immediate compliance, for that matter - before Sam’s lips, always so much softer than they have any right to be, glide against his own. For a moment, he just hovers there. Dean can see that Sam’s eyes are closed, feel the sweeping caress Sam makes across his chest with his fingertips; he moans quietly, dares to slide an arm around Sam’s waist. He feels Sam smile against him in response.

The kiss is like something they might share after sex when they’re both too fucked out to do much more than cling to each other, murmuring the kind of endearments that seem so much more permissible in a post-orgasmic haze, tangled up and pressed so close together that Dean can’t tell where he ends where Sam begins. Sam’s tongue makes languid brushes over Dean’s, slow with it as he purrs into Dean’s mouth, the sound, the vibration, not arousing Dean so much as lulling him, soothing him. 

Not that he needs to be lulled and soothed, he reminds himself indignantly.

He holds Sam tighter.

When Sam pulls away, he drags his teeth slowly over Dean’s bottom lip. His eyes are closed. “Love kissing you, Dean,” he murmurs. His hand slides upwards, fingers gently threading through Dean’s hair. “Having you so close to me.”

Dean tilts his head as far as he can against the wall as Sam starts trailing slow, wet kisses down his throat. Feels good.

“You’re funny,” he gasps, eyes losing their focus as Sam’s tongue laps gently at the little groove where his collar bones meet. “Even when you’re playing the bad guy, you can’t resist spouting all that pansy romantic shit.” He grins. “I ain’t complaining, but…”

The kisses stop. Before Dean fully registers the drop of his stomach, Sam’s hand darts between his legs, fingers slamming around Dean’s cock in a grip that punches the breath clean out of him.

Dean’s head darts backward, colliding with the wall. He barely registers the thump of pain. Can’t, when Sam touches him like that, squeezes; like he wants it to hurt. Arousal shoots down his spine at the thought, amplifying Sam’s touch. 

“Sam, _fuck_.” 

Sam’s mouth is tight, his eyes alight with… with, Dean doesn’t even know. Something like anger, but not quite. Something he’s never seen in Sam before, and it’d scare him if it didn’t turn him on so fucking much. Or perhaps vice versa. He doesn’t even know. _God._

Sam throws a heavy arm over Dean’s chest, inhibiting his movements. “Thought I told you not to talk back to me?” 

His mouth is barely an inch from Dean’s, and Dean feels the punch of aggression behind every single syllable.

“Not in as many words,” Dean gasps. 

Sam’s eyes flash. He’s grinning, sort of. “Don’t fucking push me, Dean.”

Dean almost flinches. He can hardly stand Sam looking at him like that, eyes shining with adoration, like he’s the most precious thing in the world; and also, somehow, like he wants to fuck him and tear him into bloody pieces all at once. He especially can’t bear how much it turns him on, knowing Sam can feel how hard he is in his pants.

_How certain are you..._

“How’s this for pansy romantic shit?” Sam’s arm tightens across his torso, and Dean slams his lips together to channel the pain. “Sometimes, Dean, I look at you, and I want you so bad I can’t fucking stand it. Doesn’t matter where we are, what we’re doing, hell, what _you’re_ doing… all I can think about is how bad I wanna hear you scream for me. How I wanna fucking _break_ you.”

Dean’s wide eyes flutter as Sam starts to rub his cock with the heel of his palm, rough, jerky strokes. Sam’s breaths are harsh, rough as asphalt. He moans along with Dean, pausing to suck on Dean’s lip before continuing.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Wanna break you, Dean. Make you crawl across the floor to me, your pretty mouth already open for my cock, begging to take everything I’m willing to give you. I wanna fuck you until you can’t stand it anymore, until you cry for me to stop, even though we both know that’s not what you want. You don’t want me to stop until I’ve taken fucking everything from you, until you’ve got nothing left to give, and even then I’ll just keep going and going… and you’ll be _grateful_ for it, Dean, _fuck…_ ” 

Sam pants the final words into Dean’s neck, stilted, hot and moist against his skin. Dean’s head slumps against the wall, eyes closed, panting and slack mouthed as Sam keeps his fast, violent rhythm on his cock. He bucks up into Sam’s hand, frenzied, shameless. Far back behind the fog of pleasure, some distant alarm bell wails in his brain; sounds like _not Sam_ and _this ain’t right_ and _you can’t ever trust your dick Dean Winchester when the fuck will you learn this lesson._

“Please,” is all that spills from his lips, in a broken, tattered gasp. “God, Sammy, _please_.”

Dean gives a cry, pitchy and embarrassing, as Sam increases the pace of his hand even more. It burns, hurts, and Dean fucking _aches_ for that sweet touch on bare skin. 

“Yeah?” When Sam looks up, amidst the glow of sex and aggression, Dean thinks he catches something else in Sam’s eyes. Is that - relief? “You gonna let me do that, Dean? This what you want?”

Dean doesn’t know. Yes. _No_ . Shouldn’t. But fuck, he _does_. 

It’s not as if Sam doesn’t know what makes Dean tick, after all. He can’t have forgotten all the fantasies Dean has shared with him over the years, even the really nasty, violent ones that flushed Sam's cheeks a glaring scarlet, evoked awed responses like _Jesus, Dean, you’re really into stuff like that?_ Dean didn't mind - quite liked watching Sam squirm, actually - and he'd long since accepted that he’d likely never get Sam on board with acting out the more grisly tales buried deep in his spank bank. But then again, Sam is different since he...

Dean still can’t use the words “Sam” and “died” together in the same sentence.

“Dean?” Sam’s insistent rubbing slows. “Say something.”

“Dammit.” Dean ignores the confused, hungry whines of his cock, sucking in a loud breath to steel himself. He closes his eyes. “How long have you wanted to do this, Sam?”

Sam responds with a kiss to his throat. Almost sheepishly, he whispers, “Forever.”

Dean stares at him. “The fuck is forever?” he can’t help but snap. “We talking weeks? Months? Years?”

Sam’s arm leaves his torso. Dean can still feel the weight of it, knowing he’ll have a nice line of bruises come up there later. Be a fucking wonderful souvenir if this all goes to shit.

After a few moments of silence, Dean chances opening his eyes. He almost jolts when he finds that Sam is staring back at him, his gaze a little less vengeful now, but no less intense. Confused, actually. A little hurt.

“I… guess I just got over myself,” he says quietly. “If you don’t trust me, I’ll stop.”

Something twists in Dean’s gut. It sobers him. 

Sam got over himself. Of course. Makes sense. New lease of life and all that bull. After…

He swallows the memory. Doesn’t wanna think about Sam lying there like that, for two whole days, ivory skinned, stiff and cold like a marble pillar. Not now, not ever.

As Sam’s head begins to droop, Dean stops him with curled fingers beneath his chin. “Hey,” he says. “Of course I trust you, sweetheart. Don’t you go saying stuff like that.”

“Yeah?” Sam says faintly, like he’s afraid. 

_Afraid of himself?_

_Stop this._

Dean knows his brother. He _trusts_ his brother, dammit. Maybe Sam has wanted to do this for as long as he’s known Dean would be into it. It makes perfect sense, actually, his apprehension; makes sense that he’s gone through years of moral hand-wringing over the whole thing. That proves it. Proves Sam is still the same.

Dean is not going to be cockblocked by a demon and his stupid lies. Especially not _that_ one.

He leans forward and kisses Sam. His relief when Sam puts his hands on his face and kisses back is like nothing he’s ever felt. He takes a moment to indulge in it; to breathe in Sam’s scent, to murmur his name against his lips. 

To summon courage.

When he draws out of the kiss, Sam watches him curiously.

“Right,” Dean says. He spreads his hands with a grin. “All yours, master.”

Sam’s mouth trembles, like he’s fighting a laugh. Then, he grabs Dean’s lower lip between finger and thumb; Dean’s surprised grunt becomes a stuttered whimper as Sam gives it a hard twist.

“I will gag you if I have to,” Sam says calmly. “Shut the fuck up.”

When Dean hisses and reflexively tries to jerk out of his grip, Sam lets go. Dean’s fingers fly to his lip, still throbbing. Catching Sam’s naked amusement, he sulkily draws his hand away. 

The threat rings in Dean’s ears as Sam steps back a few paces. Dean watches him straighten his shirt and glance at the nearest wall mirror on the other side of the door, a long full-length thing covered in smears and stains Dean doesn’t like to think about the origin of. When he turns back to Dean, his lips curl up slightly. That something Dean can’t quite place is back in his eyes. He thinks he might be trembling. Just a little.

Sam gestures at the floor before him. “On your knees.”

It takes Dean a moment to process the command, even longer for his mind to catch up and remind him that Sam is probably expecting him to obey it. Sam watches him; when Dean still doesn’t move, he raises his eyebrows, nodding at the floor.

“Now, Dean.”

Dean steels himself, avoiding Sam’s eyes as he paces the short distance across the floor; he pauses, just for a moment. He draws a breath that shudders on exhale, then lowers himself to his knees. He dreads to think the shit this carpet has seen over the years.

“Good,” Sam says quietly. “Look at me.”

Dean clenches his fists against his thighs and raises his head. Sometimes it’s impossible not to feel a little short around Sam - although of course he’d never tell him that - but being down here, where his head barely reaches his waist, makes him feel so strange, small. Weird, looking up at Sam like this, fucking _kneeling_ for his little brother like some bitch. Sort of woozy. 

Plus, being almost face to face with Sam’s erection reminds him of how much his own cock hurts. He needs to get these jeans off. He tries not to squirm.

“Yeah. This is much better.” He almost flinches as Sam’s big hand comes down on his face, covering his entire cheek. “Gonna be good for me, Dean? You gonna let me take what’s mine?”

 _Fuck_. If Sam says anything like that again, Dean’s not sure he’ll be able to himself from blowing his load in his pants.

“Yeah, okay.” He bites his lip. “Yeah, Sammy, I-I’m gonna be good.”

That manic grin is back on Sam’s face. Dean grunts in surprise as Sam’s hands slip round to the back of his head, pushing until Dean’s nose is squashed into denim. He can’t help but open his mouth, brush the outline of Sam’s cock through his jeans. It wrings a hungry, shameless moan from Dean’s throat, which doesn’t feel too humiliating until Sam fucking chuckles over it.

Dean’s fists clench tighter.

“Feel that, Dean?” Sam says. “You did this. It’s all for you.”

Despite himself, Dean moans again. Worse still, his cheeks are beginning to feel slightly hot, which means his face will be pink, and... fuck’s sake. Sam definitely owes him pizza and a blowjob when this is over. Good pizza, too. No Little Caesar’s.

“Yeah?” he gasps aloud. “For me, Sammy?”

Sam rolls his hips, rubbing his clothed cock against Dean's cheek. Fuck, that’s hot. No, it’s degrading. Yeah, but it’s hot too.

“Yeah, ‘sall yours. You can have it.” 

Sam is panting, and as his hips jerk again, Dean wonders if his movements are truly as controlled and measured as they seem. 

“You can have it,” Sam repeats. “You only have to ask.”

Dean’s mouth closes. He pulls his head back as far as he can in Sam’s hard grip, scowling. “Dude. Come on.”

Sam chuckles again, pushing on Dean’s head until his mouth once again meets with cock he can’t touch, can’t get in his mouth. He hates how desperate he is for that, this woozy feeling making him want it _so bad._ Compelling him to take orders, from fucking _Sam_ of all people. What is this feeling, anyway? Some kind of magic shit Sam can do now, something he hasn’t told Dean about?

Even Dean reflects that that’s ridiculous. Besides, he’s past worrying about that stuff now. He is, he is, he is.

“What’s the matter, baby?” Sam coos. Dean’s eyes widen. “I can see how hungry you are. You don’t think you should work for it, at least a little?”

Dean’s head pulsates, because this is all getting way too weird. Sam does call him baby in the heat of the moment sometimes, usually when he’s pushing orgasm and he can’t quite control his mouth. If Dean is feeling bitchy enough, he’ll bring it up later just to watch Sam squirm and swat at him in embarrassment. Hearing him say it now, so consciously? He doesn’t quite know how to feel about that. 

“I ain’t begging you for your dick, Sam,” he growls. “This ain’t some porno. Just let me...” He trails off, because the end of that sentence sounded way too close to begging.

Sam doesn’t miss it, either. “You almost got it,” he says smugly. “Let you what, Dean, huh?”

Dean is silent.

Sam ruffles his hair, and Dean is just surprised enough to look up and meet his eyes. They’re cloudy with desire, slightly euphoric. Power drunk, probably. Little shit.

“Come on,” he says, in a softer voice. “It’s me. You don’t have to be ashamed of what you want.” He smirks. “Or how bad you want it.”

“ _Sammy_.” 

It emerges as a whine, not as the commanding, “I’m putting a stop to this” bark he intended. Besides, he is curious about how it would feel. How _he_ would feel, demeaning himself like that. 

Sam gives a tug on his hair; hard enough to catch his attention, but not enough to hurt. “I’m waiting.”

Dean parts his lips, closes them; then, sighs. “Please.” It’s a husky sound, barely audible.

“Please what, Dean?”

Dean swallows. He says, through his teeth, “I want your cock.” For effect, he adds another belligerent, “please.”

To his relief, Sam nods, looking at least halfway satisfied. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Dean bites back the burning _fuck you_ dancing on his lips because, despite himself, if he doesn’t get Sam’s cock in his mouth within the next few seconds, he thinks he might actually die. Has that ever been a cause of death? Cock deprivation? He makes a mental note to look that up.

He forgets about it almost immediately as Sam finally, fucking finally, lets his head go and reaches for his belt buckle. “Open your mouth.”

Dean does. Ugh, he does. He sits there on his knees with his fucking mouth open, eyes wide, as Sam watches with giddy amusement. Sam takes his time opening his zipper, his hard, labored breaths the only thing making it clear to Dean that he’s as aroused as Dean is; slides his jeans and boxers off his hips, only as far as his mid-thighs. Dean can’t stop looking at Sam’s cock, flushed and steel hard, telltale pearly beads dribbling over Sam’s thumb as he gives himself a couple of lazy strokes.

Dean whines his impatience. Privately, though, he marvels over Sam’s self-control. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen him quite so turned on. How he’s managed to hold himself back to play these dumbass games is beyond Dean. He feels strangely proud.

Then Sam blows his thought process to rubble as he grabs Dean’s head again and eases - or thrusts, actually - his hips forward, until finally, fucking _finally,_ his cock is in Dean’s mouth. Dean closes his eyes, savoring the taste of him, the way he always secretly does; he likes to take his time when he sucks Sam, usually, to lap at and indulge in every inch of him, almost as if he’ll be taken away if Dean doesn’t; but today, Sam clearly isn’t interested in giving him a chance. No sooner has Dean swallowed the first trickle of precome that slides down his tongue does Sam growl and thrust forward, until the head of his cock is way too uncomfortably fucking close to the back of Dean’s throat.

Dean splutters, grabbing at the waistband of Sam’s pooling jeans; when he rolls his eyes upwards in indignant confusion, Sam is gazing right back at him, lips slack with pleasure, eyes like midnight. He tightens his grip on the back of Dean’s head before drawing back and thrusting into his mouth again, harder this time, until he all but stabs Dean’s throat and Dean gags like some porno chick. He slaps at Sam’s thigh in anger but doesn’t, to his quiet horror, try to pull away. Sam laughs quietly.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, in that same soothing tone he used when he had Dean up against the wall. “You can take it, baby. You’re doing great. Just relax.”

 _Baby_ , again. It makes Dean flush at the back of his neck, makes him go soft somewhere in his gut, and he decides he never wants Sam to stop calling him that. Oh, and there’s that woozy feeling again… christ, that feels good. What black magic is this?

_There’s no black magic. Shut up and let Sammy give you the fuck of your life._

Was that the sensible voice, or the horny one? He can’t decide. He doesn’t care.

So he relaxes. He places his hands on his thighs, and his nails scrape uselessly at his jeans as Sam draws back and thrusts in again, moaning along with the motion this time. Loudly - growling, again. Dean has never heard Sam make that noise before. Nothing quite so primal, so aggressive.

Sam thrusts again, once, twice, slow - then his irises turn three shades darker, his teeth bare into a vicious snarl, and he holds Dean’s face in his hands, tight. Dean’s eyes widen as Sam holds him there a moment, watches him breathe ragged through gritted teeth. Dean’s head starts to swim, partially through lack of oxygen and partially because Sam using his mouth like this is so fucking hot he can barely stand it. When Sam releases him completely, Dean holds onto his thighs to stop himself from collapsing backwards. His vision blurs; he catches Sam taking hold of his cock again, growling through the fierce strokes he gives himself. 

“More,” he whispers, brokenly. “Please, Sammy, more.”

Sam’s eyes alight at his plea, something fierce and intense, slightly terrifying. “You’re a good boy, Dean.”

Dean is startled - did Sam really just say that? - before Sam’s cock is jabbing at his slack, parted lips again, and Dean moans, hungry, unrestrained. He tries to open his mouth wider, tries to accommodate all of Sam’s stupid big dick - why the hell did he get to win the genetic jackpot there? - but even brushing at his throat, even as Dean gags and whimpers, he can’t get it all down. It frustrates him.

“God, fuck,” Sam gasps, as he draws back and thrusts in again. “Taking me so good, Dean… that’s it…”

Then Sam’s grip tightens on Dean’s head, and his hips start to move and grind as if something has snapped them free. Dean grunts something that might be a protest around Sam’s cock; his hands begin to claw at Sam’s thighs again, helpless, useless, as Sam fucks Dean’s throat as far as he can go. Curses and garbled mutters to higher powers roll off Sam’s tongue; the evidence of his pleasure soothes Dean almost immediately. Makes him want to take more, to keep still and let Sam do this to him; despite the blood throbbing in his temples, despite the protests of his jaw, his throat, those pain in the ass survival instincts...

Sam pauses a moment, withdraws his cock entirely. Dean splutters, gives a hoarse cry; his mouth stays open, lungs greedy for oxygen. His chin is wet with some gross god knows what, his cheeks with… something else. He’s never felt so fucking used. Or so crazy with desire, for that matter.

“Knew you could do this, baby… so perfect...”

When Sam speaks again, Dean has regained just enough of his faculties to realize that Sam isn’t looking at him. Anger begins to rise; until he remembers how Sam so clearly positioned himself right in front of the mirror. _Oh…_

Nice. A little creepy. But nice.

Sam grins at his reflection, in that twisted, unsettling way Dean didn’t even know he was capable of before this afternoon, before tightening his grip on Dean’s head again and sliding his cock back into his mouth. Dean opens wide, willing. Whether it’s the lack of air, or just how damned hot this is, that woozy feeling has blown into something bigger, more consuming. Dean feels calm. Like he doesn’t give a damn two shit flying fuck about nothing. It’s getting easier to let Sam’s cock batter his throat, to suck it up and breathe the best he can through his nose; to listen to those animal cries and revel in the fact that _he_ is causing those, _he_ is making Sammy moan and curse like that. Like he’s never heard him. 

It makes him want to surrender to Sam completely.

“You’re a fucking natural, Dean,” Sam pants; there’s something increasingly off about his rhythm, erratic, like he’s close already. “That’s so good, baby. So fucking good…”

He hisses, groans deeply, then draws out of Dean’s mouth with a wet, slurpy pop that would make Dean wince if he wasn’t so turned on. Dean stares up at him through lidded eyes, fascinated, quietly frenzied, as Sam takes his cock in his hand again and strokes, fierce, erratic. His legs are starting to quiver.

Finally, Sam looks down; as he roams his eyes over Dean, he bites his lip, hard, the power and sex drunk look in his eyes giving way to something like pure joy. 

“Fuck, you look incredible,” he growls, although Dean’s fairly sure he looks like a debauched mess. “Wish you could see yourself, on your knees for me like this… oh, wait.” An open mouthed grin. “You can.”

Dean almost wants to close his eyes as Sam easily pivots him around by his shoulder, his legs limply dragging to follow. Sam moves with him, until their sides are parallel with the mirror. Sam, the weird little fuck, turns to look immediately. Dean bites his lip, staring up at Sam with nervous suspicion. He doesn’t protest, though. He doesn’t think he could find the words if he even wanted to.

“Look,” Sam commands, although there’s no aggression in it. “I promise, you look incredible. Promise you won’t regret it.”

Sam’s steps forward just an inch as he continues to furiously rub his cock. Dean stifles a whimper. He stares up at Sam, meeting eyes that brim with love and pride amidst the frenzy of his proximity to orgasm. Sam is _pleased._ Pleased with _him._

Dean decides he can pick apart how good that makes him feel later.

He turns his head. His reflection stares back at him just as apprehensively. It’s weird. He looks as expected; small and debased before Sam, half-naked, his chin sticky with slimey saliva and Sam’s precome, cheeks wet with involuntary tears. Fuck, that’s so wrong. Seeing himself like this, wanton and wrecked, seeing what Sam sees… Dean feels light, giddy, like he could float.

And then Sam grabs his face again, rough and careless, and Dean grunts as he’s forced to look away. Sam’s cock is so close, to his mouth, his nose, he can smell it, almost taste it, and he wants it, wants more. His jaw loosens, tongue sliding out of his mouth, ready.

Sam grins. “So slutty for me, Dean,” he whispers, as Dean pants and tilts his head back. “So good, doing as you’re told. Should I mark this pretty face, baby? Show you who you belong to?”

“Yeah, fuck, show me.” Dean’s words rolls into a string of pleas. He’s barely conscious of what’s coming out of his mouth. “Yeah, Sammy, need it, _please…_ ”

“Did you just beg me to come on your face?” Sam gives that chuckle again, wrecked with pleasure this time. “God, that’s so fucking cute. See? You don’t need to be shy… not with me, Dean, not ever…”

Dean feels a pang of annoyance at being called _cute_ , but it passes quickly as Sam growls and pulls his head closer still, until the slick, hot head of his cock bumps against the tip of Dean’s nose. Dean moans shamelessly, murmuring incoherent pleas he can’t even make sense of himself. Sam thrusts into his own hand, once, twice; then his spine seems to give, his knees lock, and he curves, rigid and panting, as he comes more fiercely, more violently than Dean has ever witnessed. Dean closes his eyes, letting Sam’s release stain his face in stuttered, warm bursts. It’s everywhere; his brow, his cheek, even, he realises with a note of fascinated disgust, his hair. He loses himself in the delicious sounds Sam makes, guttural, helpless cries of pure ecstasy.

Dean grabs onto the waistband of Sam’s pooling jeans, staring up at him in awe. 

Sam looks slightly stunned, like he can’t quite believe the whole thing either, as he gulps for air through parted lips. A few moments pass; then, with trembling thighs, Sam lowers himself to the floor before Dean. He kisses his cheek - carefully avoiding, Dean notes, the area he’s splashed with his come - and places a hand on each of Dean’s shoulders, touch light and reassuring this time. 

He laughs again. “Fuck.”

Dean can’t think of a more coherent response than, “Yeah.” His hand moves idly to his groin, and even the very slight friction of brushing his palm over his jeans makes his entire body jolt.

Sam gives him a look of amusement, before quickly grabbing Dean’s wrist and pushing his hand away. “No,” he says. “Not yet. I’m not done with you.”

Dean stares at him. “What the hell, man? Can’t just leave me fucking hanging like that.”

He whimpers - he hates that he keeps doing that - and thinks about moving his hand back to its previous position, before the look in Sam’s eyes stops him. Christ, when did he get so obedient? Fuck that - when did Sam get so scary?

Sam leans in, and his tongue darts forward, swiping over Dean’s lips. He catches a drop of his own come, eyes glinting wickedly.

Dean watches him swallow with fascinated disgust. “That’s so gross. What the fuck is wrong with you today?”

Doubt prickles. _If there is actually something wrong..._

Dean sits on it, suffocates it. He’s done with those stupid thoughts.

“Couldn’t help it," Sam says brightly. "You just look so damn _good._ ”

He cups Dean’s jaw, twists his head until Dean is forced to meet his reflection in the mirror again. Dean winces at the sight. His flushed face, his foggy eyes, Sam’s come staining his face in bursts, a glob of it dribbling down his cheek. His cock, that demanding little motherfucker, continues to scream for attention. 

“If you ain’t done with me,” he mutters, “at least let me wipe it off.”

“Not yet.” Sam’s expression is so fucking smug in the glass. Dean hates him. If the promise of an orgasm wasn’t hanging in the balance - presumably, anyway - he’d break Sam’s nose.

Instead, he huffs. “I look…”

“Beautiful,” Sam interrupts. 

He drapes an arm around Dean’s shoulder, like they’re watching TV, or driving through the night and craving a little physical contact. Dean shudders. It’s out of place, disturbing.

“You look exactly how I want you to look,” Sam whispers. “Because you’re mine, Dean. And right now, I want you to look like this.”

Dean shudders. Make that “disturbing” mixed with “hot as all holy hell”.

“You goddamn freak, Sammy,” is all he manages.

Sam kisses his head. It’s then that Dean realises he was correct; there is come in his hair. A fairly big, icky clump of it as well. Cool. 

“Look how fucking pretty you are like this.” Sam squeezes Dean’s jaw in his grip. “Perhaps I should take you out right now, huh? Let everyone see what a little whore you are for me?”

Dean feels that strike somewhere deep, somewhere he knows should hurt, make him mad; but it doesn’t, can’t, because Sam is right and Dean is too damn turned on by his words to care. In the glass, his face flushes, burns; he thinks he might be trembling again. He lets out a pitchy little sound, a mewl, like a cornered kitten. 

He almost flinches when Sam kisses him again, soft, in that same spot on his face. His eyes are drawn to Sam’s exposed cock, in the mirror; and moreso, the realisation that it’s not sticky and spent, but stirring back to attention. How the fuck...

Dean watches Sam as his hand sweeps over his bare chest, fingers grazing a nipple; Dean’s breath hitches. Sam’s touch is almost tender, as it slides lower, grazing the skin just above his waistband. Dean squirms, almost daring to hope for touch but not quite. He’s proved correct, when Sam doesn’t reach into his pants; instead, he flips Dean’s belt buckle open with one hand. Quite a skill, actually. Dean doesn’t know where he learned to do things like that, and he doesn’t like to think about it too much. Thinking about anyone else getting close to Sam the way Dean himself does makes him uncomfortable. And a little angry.

He watches dumbly as Sam works his zipper open, then tears his jeans off his hips with one hand. He sucks in a gasp of relief when his cock is finally freed, and he can see in the mirror the extent of what Sam’s little stunts have done to him as clearly as he can feel it. He shoves his hips forward with a frustrated grunt, as if he can get some sort of relief from air alone.

“Aww,” Sam says quietly. He gives Dean’s hip a gentle caress before letting go of him altogether. 

Dean watches in the mirror as Sam leans back, groping for something on the floor. He frowns, confused; then, as Sam regards him with a wicked grin, he figures it out and his stomach drops. He inches back on his knees as Sam scoops up his discarded t-shirt, but Sam grabs his arm, holding him in place.

Dean doesn’t bother to struggle. “You fucking dick,” he groans, but it comes out muffled as Sam starts to roughly wipe his face.

Sam laughs, _giggles,_ like some stupid mischievous kid. “What? Thought you wanted it off?” 

Dean fixes him with the kind of glare he usually only reserves for nosey cops and particularly obnoxious demons. “I hate you,” he snaps defeatedly.

Sam kisses his now clean cheek - well, kind of clean. Still feels fucking sticky. “No, you don’t.” 

He tosses the soiled t-shirt across the room, looking so pleased with himself that Dean resolves to start planning revenge the second this is over. Can’t really put grand plans in place without adequate circulation going to your head, after all.

Despite himself, another wave of relief rolls through his chest. More of Sam he recognizes : being annoying as hell on purpose. Well, there was no implication that he’d be _completely_ different, he reasons. Just maybe not…

_100% pure Sam…_

“Motherfuck,” Dean manages to mumble, knowing he’d scream it in frustration if he was alone. He’s done with this. Sam finally stops pussyfooting around him, finally gets in touch with his inner freak, and all Dean can think is…

“Hey.” It takes Dean a moment to realize Sam’s hand is covering his. Squeezing, gently. “You okay?”

Dean searches Sam’s face; this time, all he finds is concern. _Concern._ Worry. Evil doesn’t do concern. It doesn’t even fake it particularly well.

He swallows. 

Sam begins to look slightly afraid. “Dean?”

“Uh…” God, this is embarrassing. “Will you kiss me, Sammy? Just… kinda need…”

Sam cuts him off. His lips are on Dean’s in a heartbeat, and Dean’s arms jolt like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. His hands settle on Sam’s biceps, strong and comforting; he allows himself to be lifted off the floor, grateful for Sam holding him so firm, so close. Grateful for Sam’s mouth working slowly against his, all tenderness and affection, like he knew exactly what Dean was asking for: reassurance. He doesn’t need to know the context. Not now, maybe not ever. 

It would kill him to know what’s going through Dean’s mind.

And then Sam’s kiss becomes fierce, hungry, and Dean can do little but hold tight in surprise as Sam gives a fierce nip to his lower lip before pulling away and dragging him, jeans pooling around his ankles, to the bed they’ve shared the last couple of nights. He throws Dean onto the mattress face first with a careless shove, then pounces on him like a cat on an injured bird, one hand at the small of Dean’s back and the other on the back of his head. Not resting, either; he pushes, hard, until Dean’s can’t see anything, can’t even _breathe_ , for the amount of fucking pillow in his face. He slaps a hand at the mattress uselessly, grunting and squirming beneath Sam’s force. His first thought is irritation at how easily Sam managed to overpower him; then, as he notes the friction his movements bring to his aching cock, he’s struck stupid with pleasure.

Dean moans into the pillow, that unbridled shamelessness smothering any coherent thought again; sucks in all the air he can beneath Sam’s grip as he grinds his hips again, then again, fucking the bedsheets beneath him. 

He almost hears the slap to his ass before he feels it. But fuck, he feels it - stings, but even so, his cry into the pillow is more one of surprise than anything. Jesus. Sammy just spanked him.

“You can stop that right now,” Sam says above him, almost flatly. “I want you to keep still. If I have to slow this down to tie you up, I am gonna be pretty fucking pissed.”

It takes a herculean effort for Dean not to grind his cock again at Sam’s words, but somehow, he manages. His fingers curl around the sheets beneath him; one of those pathetic noises he can’t stop making echoes from his throat again.

Sam _hmms_ , his hand letting up on Dean’s head; only slightly, only enough for Dean to turn to the side, suck in some damn air. “You like the sound of that, huh?”

“No,” Dean scoffs. 

_No_ , he tells himself as well, just to reinforce it. Definitely not.

The hand on the small of his back snakes upwards, Sam’s fingers trailing over Dean’s spine; he hisses at the touch.

“I won’t have to do that though, will I, baby?” Sam purrs. “I know you’re gonna be good for me.”

“Yeah,” Dean whispers. “Gonna be _so_ good for you, Sammy.”

Sam releases his neck, takes both of Dean’s wrists in his hands and holds them on either side of his head against the mattress. He presses his clothed chest against Dean’s naked back. Dean grunts, as he figures that it’s probably in his best interests to shut up and just do whatever the hell Sam says. Well. Within reason. Or maybe not. He’d do anything to get his cock touched right about now. 

Sam kisses at the nape of Dean’s neck, soft and wet. When he releases Dean’s wrists, Dean doesn’t move. He’s not sure he trusts that Sam won’t follow through on his threat.

He aches with need as Sam’s hands come down on either side of his ribcage, holding firm; feels the shift and slide of Sam’s body as he continues his kisses in a sloppy, unrestrained zig-zag down Dean’s shoulder blades. He hovers momentarily, just mouthing at the taut flesh beneath his lips; adds the occasional brush of tongue, but no teeth. As his mouth moves, Sam’s fingers make long, sweeping trails up and down Dean’s flanks; the hem of his shirt intermittently sweeps against Dean’s bare ass, adding to the gentle sensations. 

Dean feels weightless. He mouths at the pillow beneath his face, keening quietly at the sparks of pleasure winding gently around his nerve endings. “‘S nice,” he murmurs, following the trail Sam’s mouth makes into the groove where his rib cage meets, his spine begins.

“Good,” Sam breathes into his skin. “Want you to feel good.”

Dean shudders as Sam’s fingers begin to follow the path of his mouth, like he’s mapping coordinates into every inch of Dean’s skin. Sam moves lower; he works slowly, planting kisses on each notch of Dean’s spine. Dean’s hips writhe of their own volition; he quietly moans Sam’s name into the pillow, revelling in the harsh little grunt he gets in response. 

Sam kisses, caresses, until his tongue works a languid stripe across the small of Dean’s back; Dean’s fingers bunch around the sheets beneath him. The events of well, minutes ago really, feel lost to time, distant, a dream. He feels so…

Then he yelps. Sam’s fucking teeth again, sinking into his asscheek like a dog with a chunk of meat. Dean bucks his hips involuntarily, letting out a choked sob; the pain is dizzying, electrifying. He can’t just keep still and take it, can’t even _think_ about it.

Sam’s mouth lets up, but his hands tighten. “You’re not being very good, Dean,” he chides, grazing his lips over the area he bit.

“I ain’t your damn chewtoy,” Dean snaps, before he can think better of it. He jams his face back into the pillow. “I mean… please do something, Sammy, m’ going crazy here.”

Sam leaves a pause just long enough for fear to lap at Dean’s throat. Then, with naked joy, he says, “I know.”

_Fucking asshole bastard cockteasing piece of..._

Sam’s hands start to push insistently at the back of Dean’s thighs; taking the hint, Dean braces his knees against the mattress and lifts his ass into the air, letting Sam nudge his legs apart. He whimpers at the feeling of exposure, if nothing else; then, when Sam chuckles appreciatively, he’s sure his blush is visible in every crevice of his skin.

He lets Sam tug off his jeans, still pooling around his ankles, followed by his boots and socks. He lies still, letting him; he’s hardly any more naked for it, not really, but Dean knows his thighs are shaking; knows how it escalates when he feels the dip in the mattress behind him. 

Sam’s hands clamp down on each of his asscheeks. Despite his apprehension, he whines; grinds his ass backwards, up into Sam’s touch, for something, fucking, _anything..._

He’s met with a wordless murmur, something that sounds almost sympathetic. Dean doesn’t trust it, can’t trust it. If Sam bites him again…

He doesn’t. Dean grits his teeth as Sam’s thumbs slip between his asscheeks, jutting them apart. He garbles something that might have started as Sam’s name, but ends in a curse, as Sam breathes wetly into his exposed asshole.

Then any coherent grasp he has on the situation shatters; Sam’s tongue laps at his hole, and it’s just the tip, it’s barely anything, but Dean’s entire body spasms and the whine Sam wrenches from his throat is pitchy and pathetic. Then, his brain catches up; all it can really string together is _Sam_ and _tongue_ and _in there._ Sam has never done this for him before, hell, _no one_ has ever done this for him before. No one has ever given a satisfied moan that echoes all the way up into his body, like Dean’s fucking asshole is the sweetest damn thing they’ve ever tasted. No one has ever… _fuck._

Sam grunts Dean’s name before brushing his lips over Dean’s hole and jutting his tongue forward again, lingering this time; it pauses there for barely half a second before rolling, tracing, savoring , and Dean tears helplessly at the pillow beneath his head, pushing his hips up for more. Sam responds by digging the heels of his palms into Dean’s ass, breathing hard into the delicate flesh beneath his mouth; then, Dean’s vision starts to quake around the edges, as Sam’s tongue breaches, eases, slips inside of him.

“ _Jesusfuckingchrist_ ,” he gasps, and Sam’s guttural moan in response rocks his bones, until he’s amazed that he can even keep himself upright. 

His shoulders collapse into themselves when Sam punctuates a further thrust of his tongue by digging his nails into the flesh of Dean’s ass, not hard, but enough for Dean to feel the sharp burn lick across his skin; it’s obscene, hearing Sam moan like that, feeling Sam’s lips close and glide around his hole, fierce, hungry, his tongue draw back, then slip back in, slow, then fast, then again, until Dean can’t control his mouth, until he’s cursing and whimpering and alternating between pleas for Sam to give him more, then less, because it’s too too much, then more again, and _don’t you dare stop Sammy,_ and he thinks if someone doesn’t touch his cock soon he might just die, and he thinks he’s said that aloud but he isn’t sure, but it doesn’t really matter because this - hearing Sam growl, thick and muffled into his asshole as he fucks Dean with his tongue, slick and hot and opening Dean so fucking easily - well, if Dean _were_ to die right now, he’d go with such a sense of serenity, satisfaction, he wouldn’t even mind.

Sam pulls away, mouth making a slick popping sound that might be either the best or worst thing that Dean has ever heard. He gives a little cry, ragged, hungry; jolts his ass back in two desperate ruts. Right - he gets it now. That whole thing Sam said about Dean being a whore? He wasn’t wrong. 

He gives a pleading whine.

“You’re so _demanding_.” Sam’s tone is playful as his hands leave Dean’s ass, but there’s a warning edge to it. “Don’t worry, baby, you’ll get what you want. Just be patient.”

Dean hears something then; two pumps, a little squelching noise. Somewhere amidst the fog in his brain, he wonders when the fuck Sam managed to grab lube. Doesn’t matter - doesn’t matter, nothing does, not when Sam’s fingertip teases his spit slick hole like that, making Dean feel like he’s never even been fucking touched before. 

“Sam,” is all he manages, ragged, broken. “Sam, now, please, need…”

Sam cuts him off with a chuckle, and Dean’s breath catches, snags, wraps tight in his throat as Sam’s finger pushes into him. He’s not gentle, not even slightly, none of his usual caution, and it hurts, _burns_ , almost, but Dean doesn’t care, his need has him huffing like an animal, pushing back for more. He can hear something else; slick, rhythmic, followed by a low grunt. Sam is touching himself. He's fucking _touching_ himself, and Dean doesn't even get to watch. Sam knows how much he loves to watch. The bastard.

“Think you could have come like that, Dean?” Sam demands, voice fraying around the edges. “Just from my tongue?”

“D-dunno.” Dean tries to snap, but his voice emerges wispy. “Didn’t exactly give me a chance to find _out…_ ” 

When Sam’s finger brushes his prostate, his words are swallowed by the cry that shudders from his throat. The spark of pleasure almost sends his knees buckling. 

Sam notices. He throws an arm around Dean’s waist, easing him back into his chest, onto his knees. Dean wants to protest as the movement forces him down onto Sam’s finger, makes him take all of it. It’s sudden, intrusive and sharp; but all he manages is a quiet sob.

“Ssh,” Sam soothes, giving him an affectionate squeeze. The contrast sends Dean reeling. “I know, Dean. I know.”

Dean wants to snap that Sam most definitely doesn’t; but then a second finger starts to tease his entrance, and Dean’s neck slackens, forcing his head back onto Sam’s shoulder. Sam nuzzles his cheek with his nose.

“Take it, baby,” he whispers into Dean’s jaw, and Dean can feel the smile on his lips as his hole is stretched wider, wetter. “Want it so bad, don’t you?”

Something about the feel of Sam’s clothed chest against his back makes Dean feel humiliated, incredible. He can feel Sam’s cock pressed against him, hard and heavy and slick with lube and come and Dean’s own spit. It briefly crosses his mind that if Sam is planning to make him beg for it again, he’ll have no qualms at all this time. Drives him to arch his hips on Sam’s fingers then slam back down again, hard, until the burn makes him babble, senseless, exclamations of pleasure that turn the air blue. 

Sam growls in response. “Do that again,” he instructs, ragged, gravelly. He presses a wet kiss to Dean’s cheek. “Wanna watch you fuck yourself.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes in reply, too far gone to think, to question. 

He grinds again, with a helpless cry, angling his hips until Sam’s fingers push so sweetly against his prostate. His dick is so firm it barely jolts in time with his movements. The slow burn is fading out, giving way to pure pleasure; building, striking, as he fucks himself on Sam’s fingers. Dean grabs onto Sam’s arm with one hand, reaches up to steady himself by grabbing the back of Sam’s neck with another; Sam purrs a quiet _fuck_ into his ear, his cock continuing to drag lazy stripes against Dean’s ass. He’s grinning widely, Dean can tell, marvelling at the way he’s made his big brother unravel, shameless, thrusting, writhing in his arms. 

Dean’s muscles start to wind tight; pleasure bristles down his nerve endings, builds, in that telltale way. He doesn’t question it; just ruts harder, driven by hot, violent need. “Sam,” is all he manages, in a broken moan. “ _Sam_ , I… I’m gonna...” 

It faintly occurs to him that Sam didn’t even need to touch his cock. That’s never happened before.

Sam pants moist breaths into his ear, arm tightening around Dean’s chest until he could almost crush his ribs; then, he cranes his neck and slams his mouth against Dean’s in a clumsy, ferocious kiss. Dean’s lips are slack, his tongue seeking Sam’s in mindless desperation; the realization that he can taste himself on Sam’s mouth, ringing wildly somewhere in the back of his mind, turns out to be the final hard push that he needs. His spine curves, his hips thrust down hard and frenzied, until finally, Dean is coming, in lightning shocks, in searing white hot waves that feel as though they’ll never ever stop. He clings to Sam until he can feel every tendon beneath his skin; throaty cries of ecstasy pulsate from his chest, trapped and muffled by Sam’s mouth, and Sam kisses him through it, growling, ferocious; Dean is vaguely aware of Sam’s hand firm on his chest, pushing, pressing, Sam’s clothed torso against his bare back, their proximity, connection, and he can hardly bear it; even as the final quakes roll through his bones, even as Sam stops kissing him and he opens dazed eyes he hadn’t even realized he’d closed, it quickly occurs to Dean that he’s never come quite so hard in his life. 

Even from the awkward angle, he can see the look of awe on Sam’s face. Something about it makes Dean feel as though he could cry, makes him feel something deeper than just whatever weird shit comes up in his usual post orgasmic haze. It makes him feel almost… complete. Overcome with a new kind of warmth, something softer. Pure affection.

He caresses Sam’s arm where his nails have clawed little welts, with an apologetic murmur. Rests his forehead on Sam’s cheek. “So good, Sammy,” he mutters hoarsely. “So, so fucking _good_.”

His Sammy, he thinks, warmly, so content and satisfied. His little brother, the person he loves most in the world, pressing soft kisses along his shoulder, grunting into his skin, mouthing and caressing, gentle and loving just as he always is right after Dean has come. Dean holds tight onto Sam’s arm, the only part of him he can really reach; shudders as Sam’s fingers gently slip out of him. He works his lips against Sam’s cheek, tasting sweat, tasting _Sam_. Everything’s as it usually is. How Dean ever could have doubted him, how he could ever have thought…

It happens quickly, so fast Dean barely has a handle on what’s happening until his head hits the pillow, until his dazed, startled reflection blinks back down at him from the ceiling mirror. His eyes widen; for the thousandth time since he came to this room, he thinks to himself, why? Why the fuck, _who_ the fuck even, thought “ _I know, let’s put a mirror on the goddamn_ ceiling!”

Then, _focus_ ; on Sam, a look of cool determination on his face as he easily throws Dean’s legs open, hands firm on Dean’s thighs as he settles between them. _God._

Dean’s cock stirs again immediately, even as his mind starts to reel. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out; nothing but what definitely isn’t a little squeak as Sam’s fingertip teases his sensitive hole again, a smirk leering on his mouth.

Dean shudders, arching his hips. Sam’s eyes are predatory again, wild. Makes him uneasy. Which is kind of an understatement. But fuck, he wants it. He whimpers, weighty with need. 

He keeps entirely still, like shell shocked prey, as Sam furrows his brow and presses his slick cock against Dean’s entrance. Dean wills, _fights_ , to relax, but his stomach is tight and god Sammy fucking _terrifies_ him when he looks at him like that.

Sam pushes in slowly; his eyes fog over and his lower lip trembles, and he moans, deep and satisfied, like he’s fucking Dean for the first time, like it’s entirely new, like he’s finally been granted what he’s craved for longer than he cares to remember. Dean’s breath comes in sharp jerks; another inch, and he cries out, his head snaps back until he catches sight of his pleasure twisted face in the mirror, and it fills him with delicious, gut wrenching shame.

“That’s right, Dean,” Sam grunts. “Open up like a good boy, come on.”

“Little warning would be nice,” Dean gasps sulkily.

Sam grins. “You don’t need warning. You love taking my cock.”

Dean can’t argue with that, so he just glares.

Dean’s eyes roll as Sam pushes deeper, and he’s not quite ready and it _hurts_ and the fact that Sam knows that and he’s taking him anyway is way, way better than it should be. It’s also… weird. Sam is so cautious, so careful usually, to the point of being fucking annoying. Is this… should Dean trust this?

Panic prickles faintly; he remembers Sam’s earlier words: _if you don’t trust me, I’ll stop._

Dean grits his teeth. _No._ He trusts Sam, has trusted Sam, with everything. Sam would never hurt him. Hasn’t hurt him. This is fine, it’s fine…

Sam’s arms quake, his mouth makes odd shapes; he doesn’t take his eyes off of Dean for a second, and when he’s finally, fully inside, he groans, deep, satisfied. His hands grab onto Dean’s forearms where they lie limply on the mattress, and Dean’s eyes flutter with twisted bliss as Sam pins his wrists either side of him, above his head. He bears his weight down, until Dean can feel the thrum of his pulse fighting against Sam’s palms, until he’s keening and whimpering because it _hurts_ , everything hurts, feels incredible; that word he can’t stop using, that word that has become his mantra, escapes him again: “ _Please.”_

Sam growls and leans down over Dean, and the touch of bare, naked skin on skin is dizzying. He draws back out, letting his cock drag torturously against Dean’s walls, until Dean is panting and trying to trap the begging demands in his throat; then, Sam bares his teeth and thrusts into Dean so hard that Dean’s vision blurs, his mouth opening in soundless bliss. 

“You know what I think, Dean?” Sam watches him intently, his faint smirk widening as Dean claws uselessly at the air. “I think people would queue for miles to watch you getting fucked like this.”

“Like who?” Dean pants. He can feel his own cock, hard again, trapped and needy between their stomachs, and it swells, _aches_ , as Sam starts to move inside of him, with fierce rutting thrusts.

“Like, I don’t know, anyone with a pulse?” Sam drags his teeth along Dean’s jawline. “You think I don’t see the way they look at you? You think it doesn’t drive me fucking _crazy_?”

Sam’s mouth slides downward, grazing Dean’s neck as he moves fast, working into a vicious rhythm; Dean moans shamelessly, his legs wrapping around Sam’s back, drawing him closer, _closer…_

“But you know what? Let them look. Not like I can blame anyone for eye-fucking you the way they do.” Sam’s words are slurring, rolling into each other, every single syllable edging Dean deeper into ecstasy. “Wishing they could touch you, get a little piece of what we both know is _mine..._ ” He breathes this hotly over Dean’s throat. 

“Getting a little creepy there, Sammy,” Dean chokes out.

“ _Listen._ ” 

Dean presses his lips together as if glued. 

“I used to fucking hate it when other people looked at you like that.” Sam’s lidded eyes roll up to meet Dean’s. “Still do, sometimes. But then I realized - we know something they don’t. Don’t we?”

“We know loads of things other people don’t,” Dean gasps. His hips jerk up into Sam’s, meeting his fluid, brutal rhythm. He wishes he could throw his arms around Sam’s waist, claw his back to fucking pieces.

“We do. But this particular fact is my personal favorite .” A self-satisfied grin plays on Sam’s lips. He nips at Dean’s jaw, a spiteful little bite that makes him keen pathetically. “We both know that no one can ever fuck you the way I can, Dean. No one can make you feel the things I do… no one can make you scream, fucking _beg_ like me… You wouldn’t give it up like this for anyone else. Wouldn't let them hold you down and use you, like you're some cheap _whore._ ”

“Fuck, _Sam_.” Dean aims for indignant, but he’s giddy and incoherent with pleasure, writhing in Sam’s grip. “When the hell d’you learn to talk like this?” 

Every word has travelled straight to his cock, and god help him, he thinks he’s almost ready to come again. From being talked to this way, treated like a piece of meat. By _Sam._

“You were made to take my cock, Dean.” Sam mouths at his neck, punctuating his words with such a hard thrust that Dean almost screams. “And you’re so good at just _taking_ it. Always take it so well, just for me...” 

Sam’s grip on Dean’s wrists falters as he loses himself to pleasure. He lets go altogether; takes Dean’s jaw in a bruising grip between his fingers, slamming his head back on the pillow until Dean is forced to meet his reflection once more.

“Look in the mirror,” Sam commands. “See what I see.”

Another savage thrust wrenches a broken scream from Dean’s throat, and _fuck,_ he can’t tear his eyes away from the sight of it. Sam bared over him like a wild animal, the grind of his ass as he fucks Dean so brutally; the plump beads of sweat scattered across his back, the taut ripple of his muscles, Dean’s legs splayed open to accommodate him, allow him. He’s fascinated. Enthralled by his own unfocused eyes, the sticky smears on his cheeks where Sam has missed drops of his come. His clenched hands, still lying either side of his head because that’s where Sam wants them and, despite being freed, he doesn’t dare to move. His hair, matted with his own perspiration, dishevelled from being pulled and clawed at while Sam fucked his mouth, from writhing on the pillow. His lips trembling around unsteady whimpers, curses, mewls of Sam’s name, as his brother’s cock fills him, uses him, takes him.

“You watching yourself, Dean?” Sam whispers. “Can you see how pretty you look with my cock in your ass? You see why I can’t get enough of you?”

Dean doesn’t respond, can’t respond, wouldn’t even know _how._ He stares at their reflection, at Sam’s tilted head, the jump of pleasure in his eyes as he meets Dean’s gaze in the mirror. He feels drunk, high, broken, amazed at himself, at Sam. He feels…

The knot in his gut gives a sharp twist.

What’s changed for Sam to be able to do this to him now? What’s _really_ changed? Can Dean really buy that he just got over himself, tried to give it a chance? Can any of this be trusted - hell, can _Sam_ be trusted anymore?

_“How certain…”_

Dean stares and stares at his reflection, until his vision blurs, until his lashlines are moist, until his throat feels hot and thick.

Sam's rhythm is starting to falter. “‘M so close, Dean,” he pants, mouth at Dean’s throat. “Yeah, you keep watching, baby, keep being good… gonna see me come inside you… fucking _watch…_ god, you feel… Dean, _fuck..._ ”

Sam’s cock slams into Dean twice before he shouts roughly into Dean’s neck; his arms give out with the force of his pleasure, and Dean winces as Sam collapses onto his quivering body, slick and rigid, sighing hot and wet into Dean’s skin through his orgasm.

Dean’s reflection blinks, hard, but it’s not enough to trap the tears in his eyes. When they start to leak down his cheeks, he has to look away. He doesn’t understand. He’s dazed, thoughts tangled and hazy; his throat pulsates.

What if Sam did come back different? What if he escalates, gets worse and worse, does something out there that even _Dean_ can’t justify, defend?

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam says softly. “Jesus.”

His face is still buried in Dean’s neck. His hands move to rest tenderly on either side of Dean’s face. Dean traps a quiet sob in his chest. 

When Sam raises his head, his lazy, blissed-out grin quickly fades. “Hey. You alright?”

“I…” Dean falters. His wrists hurt. “I dunno, Sammy. I dunno.”

He watches the anxious little jut of Sam’s throat as he swallows. He can feel the slickness of Sam's release in his ass; barely registers the exquisite burn when he pulls out. He lets Sam takes hold of his waist, grip firm and reassuring. He clings limply to Sam's shoulders, allowing himself to be manoeuvred until he’s straddling Sam’s lap. Something crumbles inside of him. He hates for Sam to see him upset. Hates those moments where he can't be strong.

“Talk to me,” Sam says. 

From the tightness of Sam’s features, Dean can tell he’s fighting to keep a leash on his concern. He knows that pushing, chasing, sends Dean hurtling off in the opposite direction. Something about that comforts him further. He feels safe, he realizes. Fucked out and dazed, overwhelmed; but safe. Just like he always does when Sam holds him.

Sam’s arm slides around his waist, hand making gentle, caressing sweeps across his back. The other reaches for Dean’s face, a finger gently brushing away the tear winding down his cheek. Dean swallows. He doesn’t know how to handle this, where to even begin.

He reaches for Sam’s mouth, running his finger tips over his soft lips. He trails them up further, over his cheek, meeting eyes that brim with love and concern. So recognizable, so like Sam. Almost enough to eat away at his fear. Almost.

Dean swallows. “I just… I gotta know that you’re real.”

Sam frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” 

Dean thinks about how the hell to put this. Sam waits, patient. 

“I dunno.” He blinks hard. “I dunno. It’s stupid, Sammy.”

“It’s not stupid.” Sam ruffles his hair, smiling faintly enough for Dean to see his confusion leaking through. “I’m real, Dean. This is all real.”

He presses a tender kiss to Dean’s forehead. Dean knows that Sam has no idea what he’s supposed to be reassuring him about - and Dean plans to fucking keep it that way - but something about the fact that Sam wants him to be okay, something about that realization, soothes him enough for now.

He lets Sam kiss him, sensual, tender. Familiar. He holds Sam close, and he knows - he just _knows_ \- that this is his brother. 100% and pure. Dean trusted Sam and nothing happened, nothing bad. Yellow Eyes is full of shit. Always has been. 

Who could blame Sam for being a little messed up at the moment? No one could, no one _should_ . Least of all Dean. Guilt laps at his throat, tinged with raw self-loathing. How could he have let a demon - especially _that_ one - fuck with his head this much?

“I love you, Dean,” Sam murmurs against his mouth. “Let me take care of you, okay?”

Dean bites his lip, trying to fight back a fresh wave of tears. Sam’s arm holds him tight, squeezes. His tongue laps at Dean’s chin as he wraps gentle fingers around Dean’s cock, wrenching a shaky moan from Dean’s throat; he buries his face in Sam’s shoulder, inhaling sweat and sex and something else, something uniquely Sam. It’s intoxicating; he wonders how he even survives every second apart from him, every damn moment he and Sam can’t be this close.

Sam squeezes Dean’s cock, giving him a few gentle, languid strokes. Dean’s thighs begin to quiver, and he whimpers quietly into Sam’s slick skin. He knows he isn’t going to last very long. Doesn’t matter.

“Just want you to relax, Dean,” Sam whispers, right into Dean’s ear. His arm moves upwards so his hand can rest on the back of Dean’s head, touch light and affirming. “Want you to feel good. Want you to trust me.”

“ _Sammy_ ,” Dean sobs.

He ruts slowly into Sam’s hand, meeting his strokes as their speed increases. When Sam’s thumb rolls gently over the head of his cock, his eyes flutter closed in bliss.

“You were incredible back there.” Sam lazily caresses his hair as he speaks. “Blew my fucking mind. So perfect, Dean, did so good for me.”

Dean shudders, savoring the warm burst of pride at Sam’s words. He could, he decides, listen to Sam whispering sweet things on repeat for the rest of his life and never, ever get tired of it. He burrows further into Sam’s embrace, greedy for the proximity, the comfort..

“You really like that, don’t you?” Sam kisses his cheek fondly.

“You jerking me off?” Dean murmurs. “Yeah, guess I’m something of a fan.”

Sam laughs softly. “Not that. I meant when I praise you.” Another tender kiss. “Encourage you.”

Dean thinks he might be blushing again, like some giddy chick. He hates Sam for being able to make him do that. His arms tighten around Sam’s neck, and he hides his face in his clavicle with a noncommittal grunt.

Sam is silent for a moment or two; he increases his pressure on Dean’s cock, only slightly, but enough for Dean to garble a curse into Sam’s skin, bucking his hips for more of that delicious touch. Sam grants it, increasing the pressure of his grip just so, just the exact way Dean likes it when he’s teetering on the edge. His teeth clamp into his bottom lip as Sam’s knowing hand pushes him closer to orgasm

“‘M so proud of you,” Sam whispers. “Did so well, Dean. Want you to come for me. You deserve it.”

Dean quivers, then spills into Sam’s hand with a strangled cry. Sam holds him through his orgasm, so tightly, cradling his head, trailing soft kisses over Dean’s shoulders. He continues to murmur sweet things, praises, reassurances, declarations of love. Dean listens, he clings to Sam and he _listens,_ long beyond the point he’d usually tell Sam to stop before he spewed his lunch in his face. He’s never needed to hear these things quite so much. 

Then again, he's never needed Sam quite so much either. Not the way he does lately.

“You’re driving tonight,” Dean says. He's not moved from the position Sam laid him down in some minutes ago, curled up on his side with Sam's arm slung lazily around his waist. He doesn't want to move. He feels like he could sleep for weeks.

Sam grazes his fingernails lightly over the back of Dean’s neck. "Fine by me."

In the silence, Dean listens to Sam’s soft, even breaths; his skin feels sticky with dried out sweat and come, but he can barely entertain the idea of moving at the moment, let alone showering. He wants a few minutes, just a little while, to feel Sam pressed naked up against him, kissing the back of his head, holding him so near, so tight.

Sam trails his fingertips lazily over Dean’s stomach. “You wanna talk about it?” he asks.

Dean stiffens. Well. It was, he reasons, optimistic of him to think that Sam might just drop it. 

He opts to play dumb. “About what?”

Sam hesitates. Dean can hear him carefully sorting through words and phrasing in his mind, trying to sculpt his point into something Dean-friendly.

“You were crying,” he says, eventually, sounding like he’s delivering terrible news to someone who really doesn’t want to hear it. “I just worry… I dunno.” He sighs. “Did I fuck it up, Dean?”

Dean winces. He swallows down dread that rises like bile as he rolls over to face Sam. He touches his cheek, as if he could wilfully dissolve the anxiety written all over his brother’s face.

“I came twice, Sammy,” he tells him, punctuating his words with a soft kiss to Sam’s temple. “That seem like a fuck up to you?”

A faint smile passes Sam’s lips. “I guess not.”

“Right.” Dean squeezes his hand. He pauses; his tongue touches his top lip nervously. “Just… just promise me something, sweetheart, okay?”

Sam eyes him with curiosity. “Sure.”

“Well, first off… promise me you ain’t feeling weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Like…” Dean trails off. “I dunno. Different than normal.”

“No.” Sam says slowly, looking baffled. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“And you’ll tell me if that changes?”

“Sure. Dean, are you-”

"I'm fine," Dean tells him firmly. “Don’t you worry about nothing, okay?”

Sam nods. “I’ll try. I guess I just thought...” 

“And what have I told you about thinking too much, Sammy?” Dean squeezes his hand. “Thinking ain’t nothing but trouble.” 


End file.
